


Domain

by mechawaka



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Post-Game Reuniting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechawaka/pseuds/mechawaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Solas disappears, Lavellan has a hard time getting away from him in her dreams. One night, she invites him in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domain

Riale doesn’t bother trying to conceal her dreams from him anymore. This is not a sign of apathy or acceptance, she tells herself, but of exhaustion; he finds her, every night, regardless of how far or how fast she flees through the Fade. She tries shrouding herself with magic, but his own aura can always pierce it. She sprints through dreamscapes on the pads of ethereal feet, boundlessly swift, but ever is his shadow at her back. When all else fails, she stalks through recreations of her clan’s favored summer forests, masking her tracks as the old hunters taught her, nesting herself in the hollows of ancient trees and losing herself in echoes of Lavellan laughter.

It works, for a time, until the laughter is his, gentle and warm and enveloping her, and thick, gritty plaster runs down the wooden walls of her sanctuary. She claws her way through it, tearing chunks of it out of her hair, but then she is awake and gasping and feels the rough abrasion of sand under her fingernails for the rest of the day.

So, she stops trying. Riale clothes herself in midnight silks, binds her black hair up with pearls and silver filigree and walks the Fade as if it is her domain. She _makes_ it her domain; she goes to Skyhold, to her tower-top bedroom, wills fire to life inside the grate. With a sweep of her arm, the veranda doors fly open and bone-chilling mountain air gusts into the room. The Dalish tapestries adorning the walls flutter in the wind but do not fall; imperfections happen only at her command.

She doesn’t know what he wants, but she’ll make _damn_ sure this invasion is on her terms.

As always, his aura arrives before he does. She feels it clash with her own magic, the tendrils of their powers twisting together and tightening, and suddenly he is there on the balcony, on the edge of her space. She’s not sure what she was expecting. Anger, perhaps. Aggression. A monster. A _god_. This night, he is none of these things. He stands as he did when she last saw him, somber, sad; Solas.

“Good evening, Inquisitor,” he says evenly, but his eyes are shadowed. She wonders if she only expects him to be equally exhausted, or if her wild escapism has actually sapped his seemingly depthless focus.

He takes a light step toward her, and she takes one back, curling her fingers around an intricately carved bedpost as if it could be used as a weapon. “What do you want?” Her voice is measured and calm. She reminds herself to straighten her spine. This is her domain.

“Only to speak with you.” He advances again, and she tries to mirror him but the backs of her knees hit the edge of her bed. His aura swells as he crosses the threshold, and she can see now that his feet fall with the weight of many. He smiles at her reaction, peaceful and reassuring, but the glint in his eyes is unmistakable. She knows, and he knows that she knows.

Riale lifts her chin indignantly, determined not to fall under his sway. “You haunt my sleep for weeks to _speak_ with me?”

“I promised you an explanation, _da’len_.” She hates how that word tumbles out of his mouth; she hates the look he gets when he says it, like he’s trying to remind himself of what she is. And what she isn’t, and what she cannot be. She sees his blue eyes linger on her neck, her bare shoulders, and clenches her jaw. There’s barely an arm’s length between them now, and he says softly, “But I don’t think you need one. Do you?”

“No,” she whispers, and doesn’t know why she’s whispering. It’s not as if this is one of their old interactions, all nervousness and reluctance. She can yell and scream and stomp here. But she doesn’t. Instead she takes a step forward, and this time _he_ mirrors _her_ , making sure to stay a calculated distance away. A brief moment of panic flashes over his angular face; that carefully cultivated self-control flickers. “You knew that the moment you saw me,” she challenges him, her voice stronger now, “so why are you still here, Dread Wolf?”

His gentle smile widens into a grin. “No fear, no supplication; only bravery. Marvelous, _emma lath_.” His ice-blue eyes contain nothing but wonderment then, soft and adoring. He raises a hand to her cheek, fingers feather-light on her tanned skin, and she doesn’t stop him. She surprises herself by leaning into that calloused hand, closing her eyes against the slight roughness tracing her jawline, and _Creators_ , how she’s missed this-

Solas snatches his hand back quickly, eyes refocusing. He exhales slowly, deliberately, then says with the utmost discipline, “You are right, however. I have no reason to stay.” He glances from one object in the room to another as he turns to leave. _Memorizing them_ , she realizes with a start. _He doesn’t mean to return._

But this is what she wants. A good, clean end, with his secret out in the open. Freedom for her, for her heart, for the Inquisition. Why, then, is she pulling him back by the elbow? “Solas,” she hears herself plead, small and wanting, _needing_.

He rounds on her, grabs her by the shoulders, neck muscles taut with restraint. “ _Vhenan_.” It is both a warning and a declaration. He searches her face for intent, for permission, and when she smiles, he _growls_. It rips out of his throat, rumbles through the surrounding Fade, charges it, washes over her skin in ripples; she shivers, and his fingers tighten around her shoulders.

Silently, immediately, he closes the distance between them, pressing her back against the bedpost. The edged wood digs into her skin but she doesn’t care; his lips are on hers, hot and urgent, seeking, delving. She feels herself melting underneath him, sliding down the post, and he slips a supportive hand to the small of her back, crushing her against him.

“Riale,” he breathes into her mouth, and she gasps at the intensity of it. “Look at me,” Solas instructs her when she squeezes her eyes shut, letting go of her shoulder to tilt her chin up. She obeys, earning a satisfied smile, and her heart flutters in her chest at the raw lust in his gaze. Their hips roll against each other, almost desperate, instinctive, and then his mouth is at her throat, and his fingers sear the flesh of her neck as they trail down her collarbone.

Slow and methodical, those fingers, as one hooks under her bodice and tugs at the silk, and in this inconstant place it falls away like water, _is_ water, and she does the same to his tunic; it is smoke, it is nothing under her clever touch. He catches her hand as it starts to move lower, grinning into her skin at her mastery of the Fade, and pushes her down to sit on the bed. Riale doesn’t resist; in the morning she will tell herself that she did, that she fought him a little bit before giving in, and that will allow her to face herself in the mirror. But right now there is only his skin on hers and his knees hitting the floor and the velvety glide of his tongue at the base of her throat, and _Creators_ , how she’s missed him.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he says again, his voice tense, as he leans his forehead against hers, brings both hands up to her hair. Doubt creases the edges of his eyes again, that hesitation that reduces her down to a series of mistakes, and her stomach coils into knots.

“No. Solas,” her voice is weak as she locks her bare legs around his waist, “ _this_ is what I want.” The breath hitches in both of their throats as his hardness presses against her smallclothes. “Is it what you want?”

He blinks uncertainly, a familiar smirk tugging at his lips, and Riale resolves to punch him if he says anything about complexity. _This is the simplest thing we’ll ever do, you bastard_. She cocks her head, daring him, and the smirk widens. “Yes,” he chuckles incredulously, staring at her in that pointed, amused way he has when he knows she’s beaten him.

Riale leans in close, sliding her hands up the taut muscles of his back, feels them contract. “Then _take_ me,” she murmurs into his ear, voice raw and husky, and runs her tongue lightly from earlobe to tip before sliding farther back onto the bed.

He moans, a strangled sound that sends a jolt of heat straight to her abdomen, and follows, climbing onto the mattress. He lingers over her for a moment, up on his knees, raking his eyes over her body, and takes her hand. “Marvelous, _emma lath_ ,” he whispers, kissing the inside of her palm before stretching out above her. With an authoritative wave he does away with her flimsy silken smallclothes and then his own breeches, and she very nearly laughs at the _ease_ of it.

“Impatient?” She asks breathlessly as he descends once more on the crook of her neck, gasping when he bites down in response. He trails kisses down to her breasts, flicking his tongue over one nipple and a thumb over the other, and she cries out, hitching one leg up onto his back. He hums his approval against her, grazing his teeth on the sensitive skin, and his other hand glides down her stomach.

It hovers between her legs, pushing down with tantalizingly slight pressure. “Look at me,” Solas commands quietly, and Riale does, finding a reflection of her own desire in his eyes, warm and caring, but also questioning. Reluctant. “Are you sure you want this?” _Now that you know what I am?_ The unspoken words hang between them, humid, heavy, oppressive.

Riale pushes herself up onto her elbows, frowning at the guilt that furrows his brow. “Solas,” she means to speak gently, to reassure him, but a flare of anger overtakes her, “I’m the damn _Inquisitor_. I know what I want. I’ve always known.” He starts to reply but she holds a hand up for silence, and he obeys. “It’s you who is indecisive.”

He looks down at her for a moment, completely still, a mix of distress and want swirling in his blue-gray eyes. “You are correct, of course, _vhenan_.” He pauses and she fears he will pull away from her, but he only presses his forehead against her chest. “I withheld so much from you. I do not deserve such forgiveness.”

“Regretful words for a man with his hand on my cunt.”

His head snaps up to look at her, and she nearly snorts from the force of her laughter; his eyes are wide, eyebrows raised like he _did not_ just hear her say that. But he is pulled into her joy, as he always is, and soon he is shuddering from poorly concealed mirth.

“You are _unbelievable_ ,” he reprimands, and tries his very best to sound stern even as the muscles around his mouth twitch compulsively.

Riale dons an impish smirk, falling back against the mattress and throwing both arms around his neck. “Good. Now get down here and _fuck me_.” She punctuates the order by raising her hips into his still-poised hand, and they both sigh at the slick contact.

His eyes darken instantly, the last threads of control unraveling visibly in the tense line of his arm as he plunges two fingers into her, crooking them up at just the right moment to elicit the sweetest moan from her throat. She digs her nails into his back, dragging them across his shoulder blades, and he grunts, dipping his head to kiss her again. She whimpers into his mouth as he pushes into her, matching the rhythmic thrust of his fingers to the sweep of his tongue.

Heat gathers in her core, tightening, building, just beneath her skin, and when he brushes his thumb higher and hits that coiled bundle of nerves, circling it languidly, the tension breaks in a wave of warm pressure; she arches her back, crushing herself against him, desperate for more contact, _more_ friction as her orgasm rides out.

Solas holds her tightly until the convulsions subside, still rubbing her with one hand but so, so lightly, so as not to overstimulate the tender bud, watching her reactions with enraptured desire. It’s only after she lands back down onto the sheets that Riale realizes he’s been grinding himself against her leg, and her skin is sticky and hot with his arousal. She glances up at him playfully, shyly despite what they’ve just done, raising her thigh to push against him, and he groans softly and pushes back. The intensity of it makes her sigh, and he grins.

She allows him to climb to his knees and settle between her legs, and doesn’t try to hide her admiring gaze as it drags over his body; powerful yet lean, almost glowing under a fine sheen of sweat as he grips her waist, dragging her toward him until the small of her back rests on his thighs. The tip of his length presses her opening, slick with his wetness and hers, and Riale shudders in anticipation, biting down on her lower lip to keep quiet.

He notices and shakes his head, managing to rasp out, “I want to hear you,” as he slides into her, and she shouts his name to the far Fade when their hips connect; he buries his face in her neck, snarling, inhaling in ragged gasps, struggling to keep his thrusts steady and even. He places one hand in the middle of her back and the other at her neck, lifting her up so that she straddles his knees, then moves both hands to her hips, guiding her gently up and down.

“Solas, Solas,” she chants, more quietly now; it’s more of a prayer than a battle cry, left in wisps upon his searing skin as she brushes her lips everywhere she can reach. Her mind is nearly blank from the pleasure, her body writhing against his at an agonizingly slow pace.

The flame in her stomach reignites, growing heavy, hot and insistent inside her. She clings to his shoulders as if she will float away in their absence, and when he lowers a hand between her legs she comes again, so powerful that it silences her, sending new shockwaves through every nerve with the apex of each thrust.

His tempo increases as she squeezes around him, and she feels the muscles in his neck and back tense up at the onset of his climax. Riale leans down to one of his ears and, instead of her previous chant, murmurs, “ _Fen’Harel_ ,” hoarsely into it, and he moans obscenely, biting down on her shoulder as he comes undone beneath her, spilling himself into her in frantic, shallow jerks.

She’s left breathless at this stunning lack of self-control, cupping his face in her hands so they can bask in the afterglow together, all satisfied smiles and tender touches. It is a while before she climbs off of him on unsteady legs and leans against the headboard, beckoning him to do the same. Instead he stands beside the bed, stroking her hair and the side of her face. She knows this expression; she’s been dreading it.

“I’m afraid it is time for me to go, _ma vhenan_ ,” he says, genuinely sorrowful, conjuring a robe of soft ivory cotton to wrap around himself. “And you, as well.”

“Yes.” She answers simply, refusing to let herself break down. Not here. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and rests her cheek against his chest; he encircles her shoulders with his arms and kisses her hair. She ventures softly, “Will I see you here again?”

“To _speak_?” His lips curl deviously, and she can’t help but giggle.

“Yes. To speak.”

“We...shall see.” Solas lifts her chin and for the first time in a _long_ time she sees contentment in his face. He presses his lips to hers, then whispers so quietly she can barely hear it, “Wake up.”

 


End file.
